A Different Outcome
by TSylvestrisA
Summary: What do you do when the pieces of your old life don't fit together anymore, and the strategies you used to get by no longer work? Sequel to "The Thing Is."
1. Chapter 1

**A Different Outcome**

**Author's note:** I hadn't originally planned for there to be a sequel to "The Thing Is," but as usual in my life this story walked all over me and so here we all are again.

Also as usual, I owe huge debts of gratitude to **Pat_Is_Fannish** and **Strangegibbon**, betas extraordinares. Really, they deserve sainthood for putting up with me. Bless them both.

All blunders and errors are solely mine.

* * *

"_Isn't it time we try a different approach if we are to hope for a different outcome?"_—Mycroft Holmes (The Thing Is)

**Prologue**

The leather jacket still fit, though not as snugly through the shoulders anymore and a little tight over the belly if Greg zipped it up. It was 22 degrees out and zipping would have been ridiculous anyway. _Wearing_ it was ridiculous, but Greg couldn't do this in his own skin.

He knew what his younger self would have made of a man like him: middle-aged, wedding ring recently removed, too carefully shaven, clothes too carefully chosen, too nervous. He'd never gone home with that sort of man, never wanted to be somebody's bit on the side. He'd had the luxury of choice, back then.

He lingered across the street from the club and wished he remembered how to do this. Ah, fuck it, he was sure all the things he'd used to be good at weren't what was done anymore, but he wanted this badly enough to risk looking like the damned fool he undoubtedly was, so he put a bit of his old swagger into his stride and let the flow of human traffic carry him to the door.

Three drinks later, he'd had a flattering amount of attention paid to him and was beginning to realise he could afford to be choosier than he'd thought. He was still reeling in a very pleasant way from turning down an offer of a threesome (and wondering what the hell was wrong with him, _turning down a threesome) _when the scent of expensive cologne wafted lightly over him and hit his dick like a goddamned freight train.

"Good evening." The voiced matched the cologne, and when Greg turned around, the clothes matched everything. Wet-fox hair, sharp features, high hairline that would be receding in a few years, lovely soft hands.

When he'd been sixteen, the first public-school boy Greg had ever pulled—the first _boy_ he'd ever pulled, not yet understanding about himself, not yet knowing he could like both tits and cock, but knowing he wanted _something more _and wanted it from this boy_—_that boy had tugged Greg into the dark, empty place under the pier and sucked him until Greg had been sobbing, shaking, coming with a fist shoved into his mouth, wiping tears from his eyes afterwards, and that posh voice had whispered filthy, filthy directions as Greg clumsily returned the favour. That memory had fueled many of Greg's favourite wanks for years afterwards.

"Evening," Greg said, and wished like hell he could think of something else to say. "Uh, buy you a drink?" Damn it, wrong way 'round, and he inwardly winced and kicked himself.

The man tilted his head as if Greg had just done something interesting, and after a slow, lazy moment, he challenged lightly, "What would you suggest?"

The laughter bubbled out of Greg before he knew it was coming. "From this place? Good God, this swill is for kids who wouldn't know Laphroaig from Loch Dhu. Anything you've got back at yours would be miles better." He hadn't meant to say that last bit. It'd just spilled out, like the laughter. "Greg," he said to cover the awkwardness, and offered his hand.

"Believe me when I say names are hardly necessary." The hand in his clasped firmly, warm and dry, and all right, an anonymous shag wasn't what Greg had been hoping for, but it would do. He let his fingertips brush the inside of the wrist just below the cuffs and didn't imagine the quick indrawn breath from the other man. "Would a thirty-year Talisker suit your refined palate?"

Greg was a police officer. He knew damned well why a body did not go off to a stranger's house on the promise of drink and sex. But Greg had decided that afternoon to finally put an end to the marriage that hadn't been going right for years, if it ever really had done, and this posh bloke was hitting all his buttons, reminding him of another time when his world had suddenly opened to unimagined possibilities, and Greg thought, _Fuck it, I want this._

"Is that the best you can offer?" he asked cheekily, and was delighted to see a small, surprised, pleased smile in return.

# # #

The address they ended up at—well, "posh" didn't come close. There had been bleeding suits of armour in the room with the whiskey and the fireplace, where they'd had the promised drinks. The bedroom had a fireplace too, come to that, and Greg was nearly dizzy with hope and anticipation and the erotic associations of so much luxury.

The man turned from hanging up his suit jacket and came to the bedside, where Greg had been invited to sit but was standing instead. "There are condoms and lubricant in the nightstand," he said, not touching yet. "I must insist—"

"Yes," Greg said immediately. "Yes, me too. I have some as well."

"Use whichever you prefer, then." Finally he stepped in close enough for Greg to breathe in that scent that had been curling its way down his spine, and Greg cupped the back of his head and met his lips.

The kissing was lovely and hungry and started a burn low in Greg's belly. He took his time, sliding hands up and down the wiry back for a long, long while before undoing buttons and pushing fine cotton halfway off. There was more chest hair than Greg had expected, and freckles peppering pale shoulders. And oh, _yes,_ although the fabric of that shirt was still crisp, Greg tasted salt on skin when he tongued a nipple, and it was wonderful.

The man started to go to his knees, but Greg wanted male musk and body hair and a fat prick on his tongue, wanted to remember exactly who he was with. He drew him up and pressed him towards the bed. "Let me." His voice was much rougher than when they'd started, and he liked the way the man's eyes went wide and dark.

The taste of latex was nowhere in his fantasies, but without it he wouldn't get any of this at all. He made up for it by licking the salty crease of a thigh, the nicely heavy bollocks, the trail of hair from navel to flushed cock. When he closed his mouth around the cockhead, the belly under his forehead quivered and a soft hand touched his hair lightly; still polite, still careful, and Greg didn't want that. He wanted him shattered, broken to pieces, shaking and swearing and shoving himself down Greg's throat.

The toff made a perfectly lovely noise when Greg told him that.

It'd been years and he choked at first until his body remembered and he got the knack of it again. Then he was able to lose himself in the scents, the painfully tight grip in his hair, the hips moving under his fingers, the drool on his chin. The quiet, shuddering sighs above turned sharp when, after what seemed like hours of sucking and licking, he brusquely slid his forefinger straight into the nob's spit-wet arse and the man gasped, thrust hard for a few throat-bruising moments, and came.

Greg stripped off the condom and flipped him onto his belly, smearing the fine sheets. "Let me fuck you," he said, and it came out less commanding and more pleading than he'd intended. "You can manage twice tonight, yeah? You can have me after," he promised, and shuddered because oh, God, yes, _please._

He made a long, slow time of it. So many things he'd missed, so many things he'd regretted never doing with a man. A one-night stand, an anonymous fuck, no-one he'd ever have to face again. Bollocks-deep, he leaned forward, snugged his arms around the lean, sweat-slick shoulders, pressed kisses to hot skin. He poured lube over the head of the man's cock, held it in a slick fist and fucked his foreskin with an index finger; when the man cried out, utterly shocked, Greg managed only seconds more before he groaned and pulled out and barely got the condom off in time to come over the sleek back beneath him, rub it all over smooth skin.

Afterwards he offered himself shamelessly, begging loudly, silently damning the layer of rubber between them. The pillow smelt of cologne. The hands on his prick and in his mouth and deep up his arse were soft and fine and none too polite after all, and the man fucked the breath out of him with a thoroughness bordering on greed.

Greg indulged in something dangerously, embarrassingly close to cuddling as their sweat dried. His arse burned and tickled with lube. He stretched and sighed, debauched and contented, drunk on touch, and ruffled dark, damp hair affectionately before the man rolled off. "Thanks for that," he said. He could feel himself smiling, feel peace and optimism settle over him like golden light. "For all of this. Thank you."

When he finally got back to his empty home at an ungodly hour, he hung up the leather jacket with no small amount of satisfaction and went to bed without showering, rubbing the faint scent of expensive cologne into his own sheets.

He spent Sunday thinking about possibilities.

He'd see a solicitor on Monday, get the divorce started. He supposed it should have been harder, sadder, to put an end to things, but really, Holmes (twat though he was) had been right. She was cheating, had been for a long time, and the marriage never had been what it should have been. No, it wasn't hard.

And things were different now, not like back when he'd joined the Met. Non-discrimination policies and the like, even if the Chief did have a stick up his arse. No, a lot of things were different now. A lot of things could be different for Greg, if he was brave enough.

He figured he was just about ready to be brave enough.

On Monday morning he walked around the hall corner to his office, already thinking about the good coffee and the breakfast sandwich he'd splurged on at the shop to make the morning paperwork a bit less miserable, noting absently that the hallway was unusually quiet, when over the aroma of sausage he smelt a familiar cologne.

The fox-haired man was sitting beside his desk. Greg's stomach abruptly dropped through the floor.

"Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade." The man rose and offered his hand. Sharks had warmer smiles. "How delightful to see you again."

Greg set the bag and coffee firmly on his desk. "Let me save us some time. You don't need money and I haven't got any anyway. I won't compromise an investigation and I won't lose evidence for you. Whatever you think you can blackmail me for—"

"Do sit down, Sergeant. You have it all wrong. I'm only here to ask for a small favour, and I'm prepared to be quite generously grateful if you co-operate."

"A favour, but it's got nothing to do with my job even though you're in my office. Right, sure."

"Of course there's a connection with your work. I have a younger brother about whom I am greatly concerned. I wonder if you might agree to check in on him from time to time and let me know how he's doing."

"There's a different department for that." _I've had my hand up your arse,_ he thought. _I rubbed my come over your face. You shouldn't be this damned intimidating._

"I'm not asking you to do it in an _official_ capacity. It's not just for my benefit, but yours as well. Despite his hopelessly obnoxious manner, I believe you've found him quite useful at times. In fact, as you are aware, his unacknowledged assistance with several difficult cases may have been instrumental in your possible promotion, Detective Sergeant. You're up for review shortly, are you not?"

"Bloody hell," Greg whispered, because the penny had finally dropped. "You mean Holmes. The junkie." He tightened his fingers on the edge of the desk so as not to grab the smug git by the lapels.

After a few moments of silence, the bastard mused absently, "Your new Chief Superintendent is known for such...rigid habits of mind. Little tolerance for unconventionality, particularly for...proclivities that could be said to be the cause of marital dissolution. So difficult to prove discrimination when one's superiors simply argue that one's current rank is the one beyond which one has not the talent to advance. However should such a thing be refuted?"

Greg cursed, low and vicious. "Did you know who I was before you pulled me?"

"Of course, Sergeant."

_I won't do it, _Greg told himself. _ Never, never co-operate with a blackmailer. You're fucked either way._

There was a bottle of thirty-year Talisker on his kitchen table when he got home that evening. He sat with his head in his hands for a long time.

Three and a half weeks later his wife said she'd like to try again, and he discovered just how big a coward he really was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** My thanks, as always, to **Pat_is_fannish** and **strangegibbon**, who made this better than it was and who deserve medals for the feat. All errors, blunders, lapses in sanity, and spells of contrariness are my own.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

He'd very nearly died thrice in the span of four hours, they told him. He'd been shot, suffered a myocardial infarction, and then been poisoned.

His civilian doctors had recommended lifestyle changes for the betterment of his health. _I shall earnestly endeavour to avoid being shot by my brother-in-law or poisoned by my enemies in future,_ he whimsically imagined assuring them. _I have learned from past mistakes. _

His personal physician was a woman of resounding good sense and practicality, thank God.

"—depression and anxiety. Do not give me that look, Mycroft Holmes. They are serious and well documented sequelae of a heart attack and they increase your risk of sudden death. Do you understand me?"

"Eliza—" he said, and couldn't keep the betrayal from his tone.

"I realise this is anathema to an upper-class, repressed British male of your age, but as your consultant I need this information. How many episodes in the past week?"

"Four," he admitted.

"At least eight, then. Severity?"

"Moderate."

She made sure he saw her tick "severe" on the tablet. Eliza had an eidetic memory and Mycroft's record would be wiped before she left the building, so the gesture was especially pointed.

The garden view outside his window was grim this time of year.

"I understand," she said quietly, "that antidepressants are not an option for a man in your position. In many cases an exercise programme can provide the same benefits. No-one would question your new dedication to cardiovascular health." No stigma and no reason for anyone to look further into his motives, she meant.

The _Fritillaria_ would not be in bloom for months. The _Lonicera_ on the far side of the pond would likely be spent by the time he was able to walk that far, given that merely pulling on his trousers that morning had left him breathless and trembling for fifteen minutes.

"In addition to the physical symptoms, a degree of cognitive impairment is expected and likely temporary. Expect some emotional lability as well." Avoid public interaction, in other words. "Mycroft." He turned his attention back from the garden. "These after-effects are not failings of your body or mind. Please do not attempt to reassert control in ways that could be deemed foolish."

If he sighed, closed his eyes, tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, could he disguise fatigue as exasperation? "Should I retire to the country for the holidays, do you think?"

"I would prefer you stayed closer to the Heart Centre."

"As bad as that."

"Yes."

# # #

He had the Dower House closed up again once it seemed John Watson would not be moving from 221B after all. He could only hope John was attempting a reconciliation rather than just waiting to leave until Mycroft was recovered enough to deal with his brilliant, self-destructive little brother in the throes of heartbreak and despair.

_And what exactly could I do then?_ he wondered. _I haven't been able to comfort him for a very long time._

He slept even less than before, worrying about Sherlock. His newly poor stamina made his daytime fatigue insurmountable, and often he would jerk into awareness, disoriented, having fallen asleep in his chair like a doddering pensioner.

Sherlock came from time to time on the pretence of updating him regarding Fitzhugh's clandestine trial. John came to visit out of a sense of guilt and obligation. Sherlock held himself stiffly, anxious eyes tracking John when he thought no-one could see, and John tried so hard to forgive that it left Mycroft frightened at his inability to do so.

There was something lost there, he thought, lost forever, and Sherlock understood that only too well even if he still didn't understand why.

At night, when he couldn't sleep, couldn't focus enough to read, couldn't get up to pace around the empty house, he found himself twisting pinches of the sheets between his fingers and silently begging John: _Please. It isn't fair of me to ask it of you, but he is my brother. Please. _

# # #

Mrs Hudson sent fairy cakes.

Sherlock made predictably snide comments about his weight until John said, _"Sherlock._ A word, if you please," and jerked his head towards the doorway.

When Sherlock returned, he looked very closely at Mycroft in a way he had not done for years, observing, cataloguing, processing new data, sifting through Mycroft's mind in a distinctly unpleasant and exposing manner.

The fat jokes stopped.

Mycroft shattered a brandy snifter in the fireplace and shook with ridiculous, irrational, impotent rage. _Even that. You poison even that. I finally get that from you and it's out of __pity__._

_How can John bear you?_

# # #

"I set Lestrade's flat on fire, so he'll need to stay here until he finds a new one," Sherlock informed him. Mycroft noted the absence of the word "accidentally."

It was a childishly transparent ploy.

Frequently, Mycroft despaired of the human race. Was it really not _too _suggestive that a flat in a prime area of central London—specifically, 221C, a terrible security risk if occupied—remained unlet and empty, damp notwithstanding? Or that Mrs Hudson had ceased to receive bills for any utility at Baker Street since Mycroft's brother had moved into her building?

The good Detective Inspector was informed of his new Craven Hill flat, an easy Tube ride from New Scotland Yard yet miraculously affordable on a policeman's salary, before he left his office that same day. Mycroft retained a very, very good barrister for the arson charge that never went to court, and Inland Revenue unexpectedly discovered they had a few matters to discuss with the landlord.

_I am not helpless, I am not without resources, and I do not want your sympathy. Fix your own life, Brother._

# # #

On his slow perambulations along the bleak garden paths—exercise had not grown any less hateful since he had last resorted to it—he often wondered what might have been.

He had many regrets, but few things he could have done differently. He'd had fewer options in the past, less experience, less influence, a shorter perspective.

_I am sorry_, he told so many people. _I did what I had to do. I did what I was capable of at the time._

When he sat on the bench by the winter pond and tossed maize to the ducks, he wondered if that was really the best legacy he could leave behind.

* * *

**Author's postscript:** To every single person who commented, subscribed, favourited, or lurked: Thank you for taking the time out of your day to engage with this story. I truly appreciate that.


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